


Twenty Questions

by thedevilchicken



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Justice League (2017), Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Bruce thinks Clark wants to hurt him. He figures Bruce Wayne annoying the hell out of him over a Daily Planet interview is the best way to a resolution, if not the most direct.





	Twenty Questions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TKodami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/gifts).



"I don't want to hurt you," Clark says, and Bruce laughs out loud because he could only be less convinced of that if he actually actively tried to be.

The truth is this: Clark's wanted to hurt him ever since they brought him back, and Bruce doesn't really blame him for that. He's done things over the past few years that he probably needs to be punished for, because no one in Gotham seems inclined to step up and Diana and the others just won't hold him accountable, at least not now Clark's alive again. He's told himself that Batman is a necessary evil and if the bat is then so is his playboy alter ego, and that means Bruce himself is lost someplace in between. He's the jackass who tried to kill Superman on one hand, and on the other he's the jerk who two-timed two models who were both called Kate so he wouldn't make a slip with their names and give himself away. He's sort of broken, and he's definitely too old for this crap. But that's never stopped him before.

The truth is Clark wants to hurt him, and he's not done a lot to make him change his mind about that. Frankly, he's campaigned pretty hard in the opposite direction, and any moment now Clark is going to go ahead and fuck him up. Clark's strong; it won't take long, and it won't take much. 

It started a few weeks after the whole Steppenwolf/Mother Box incident, once Clark was back with the living and officially declared undead - Barry said something about zombies and Bruce strategically kept his mouth shut about that. Clark went back to the Daily Planet with a flimsy damn excuse about working undercover that somehow everyone believed, just like they believed his flimsy glasses-and-flannel civilian disguise, and six weeks later, Bruce's office got a call to set up an interview with Clark Kent, Ace Reporter. He was pretty sure Clark wanted him to turn it down, considering he hadn't seen him since Smallville, but he went ahead and had his media people set it all up anyway. It seemed like the thing to do, even if he couldn't've said why.

The first time, Bruce had Clark meet him in a strip club in the relatively quiet mid-afternoon, and they settled down at a table to talk, reporter to ne'er-do-well billionaire. Bruce acted like he didn't remember they'd even met once, let alone with his-and-hers capes, and the interview didn't exactly proceed smoothly from there, interrupted as it was by the smiling dancers and Bruce's expansive, open wallet. Clark tried to stay professional as the girls flocked and Bruce set a couple upon him, but in the end he gave up, stood up, and said he'd call Bruce's office to reschedule. It didn't sound like he expected that to happen at all, or like he wanted it to. Maybe that was why Bruce yes again when the call came in. Maybe he even watched for it.

The second time, Bruce had Clark meet him at a party. The interview didn't go any more smoothly then than it had the time before, interrupted as it was by the smiley, happy people who wanted to shake Bruce Wayne by the hand as the liquor started flowing freely from the open bar. Clark could barely get a word in edgewise, with all of Bruce's determined flirting with guests and wait staff of all ages and all genders, and in the end he gave up again - he said he'd call to reschedule and then disappeared into the night, though when Bruce saw the news a couple of hours later he guessed maybe the burning building down by the Metropolis harbor had had just as much to do with his early departure as the drunk, handsy socialites.

The third time, Bruce had Clark meet him in a gay bar. Somehow Bruce Wayne, Billionaire, got away with crap like turning up already half drunk and presumably straight with a reporter yelling questions at him, and they settled down at a table in a booth in the corner. Clark tried to act like he wasn't pissed when Bruce couldn't make out his questions over the music, and he scrawled a note on his pad that said, _look, let's reschedule_. 

Bruce borrowed Clark's pen to write back, _what, no dance?_ and once Clark had read it he just looked at Bruce for a moment, across the polished tabletop with the dancefloor lights flashing off of it. He'd meant it as another move to irritate him, but, just for that moment, he almost thought Clark was going to call his bluff. For a moment, he could see the two of them out there, pressed together, moving together, kind of ridiculous, and maybe it wouldn't've been the first time he'd taken pseudo-drunkenly to the dancefloor in that particular establishment, but somehow the idea of doing that with Clark felt different. It didn't feel lighthearted. It felt stupid but borderline compelling. It almost felt like something that he wanted to explore.

Then Clark laughed exasperatedly and he shook his head like he'd gone ahead and broken character just for that instant, almost more Kal-El than Clark Kent though Bruce honestly still isn't sure where one ends and the other begins, if there's even a real distinction the way there is with Bruce. Clark stood, and he bent down by Bruce's ear and said, "Someplace quieter next time, Mr. Wayne?" His hand squeezed Bruce's shoulder. His breath tickled his neck and made Bruce shiver. The stubble at Clark's jaw rasped against Bruce's own, he was so damn close, and then Clark stood back again. 

Bruce nodded his agreement and then he watched Clark leave - he watched him walk away, all jeans and checked shirt, all the way across the room and to the door. He left himself not long after that, and he changed into his other suit and went back out again. He worked out his frustrations with a batarang in his hand. Somehow, dealing with Clark Kent was ten times simpler when they were both dressed up like Halloween came early.

The next time, he had Clark meet him at a gym. It was the kind of artificially tough, gritty place where bored businessmen go to play at MMA and Clark looked a lot like he was trying not to roll his eyes as Bruce, barefoot in shorts and an oversized t-shirt like that might be a way to hide his physique, pretended he wasn't the second strongest guy in the room. 

"You want to give it a try?" Bruce asked, gesturing to the ring once his first match was over, and he expected Clark to decline on the spot, except he didn't. What he did was put his hands on his hips and jut his chin and ask if Bruce had any spare gear he could use - he did, stuffed in a locker in the next room, and maybe not quite ten minutes later Clark was in the ring in a pair of Bruce's shorts and his spare gloves, barefoot and shirtless as they circled each other. It wasn't exactly the way Bruce had seen the afternoon going. He'd expected him to give up and leave when he realized he wasn't getting what he'd come for, just like he'd done before. 

Clark pulled his punches to a massive degree and so did Bruce, though he guessed that was for a very different reason - he didn't exactly feel like breaking his hands on Clark's damn near indestructible face or his kneecaps on Clark's indestructible torso. So they fought terribly, on purpose, while the semi-incompetent loudmouthed trainer shouted directions and a kind of tough love encouragement that maybe worked on his clientele of masochistic entrepreneurs, though apparently he wasn't looking closely enough to see neither of them had even broken a sweat. And, with his rather hastily prepared mouthguard in place to help maintain the illusion that he could actually get hurt, Clark couldn't even ask him his pre-prepared questions - all they did was kick and punch and grapple like a high school scuffle, with Bruce trying not to look too amused by it all. 

If he hadn't known Clark was Superman, Bruce was pretty sure he couldn't've felt the difference as they fought - he was solid, sure, but his skin felt right, like flesh and blood over bone, like they were exactly the same. Except then Clark shifted quickly, _too_ quickly, inhumanly quickly, and he pinned Bruce down to the mat. Bruce's legs went up around Clark's hips, ankles cinched like maybe that would help his situation somehow, though he knew there'd be nothing he could do to get away if Clark didn't want him to. He'd be helpless. He'd be completely at his mercy, no recourse, no one in the room who could even start to help and Jesus, looking up at him, at his face, his eyes, feeling him against him, he hadn't realised just what a turn-on that could be, now that he trusted him. Clark wasn't going to kill him, but he could, but he wouldn't. He could feel his pulse quickening. He could feel his body reacting. Clark absolutely had to feel it, too.

"You win," Bruce said, his mouth oddly dry, his voice oddly thick, and Clark raised his brows. He pushed himself up to sit back on his heels, kneeling on the mat between Bruce's wide-spread knees. Bruce's shorts were rucked up out of place, baring almost every inch of his thighs, and Clark rested his hands on them. His fingertips left bare by the gloves were hot and definite, pressing against his skin. It didn't help Bruce's situation at all. 

"I didn't think you'd give up so easily," Clark said, and he held out one gloved hand that Bruce took. Clark rocked back and stood up, and he pulled Bruce up with him easily. 

"Let's just say I know when to cut my losses," Bruce replied, and he turned away quickly to go hit the showers, like turning away and then walking away would mean Clark wouldn't still be able to hear the way his heart was pounding, even if he couldn't see the way his cheeks and neck had flushed. Clark joined him in there, a couple of shower heads over, stripped down to his bare skin like he was taunting him for his reaction or maybe he was just oblivious to it, and Bruce tried hard not to glance that way, at him, at the way he moved, curves of muscle, the length of his cock between his thighs. He tried and he failed. Clark really had to know.

Mercifully, Clark didn't try to shout out his formulaic lifestyle section questions over the sound of the running water. Mercifully, what he said as they pulled on their clothes was just, "Let's reschedule," and then they went their separate ways again. Bruce went back to his car in the parking lot outside as Clark stepped into a cab, trying hard not to think about the weight of Clark Kent's body pressing over him. He sat there, forehead resting down against the wheel, trying not to think about water running over Clark Kent's naked skin. He failed, utterly and completely. He'd miscalculated. He'd made a mistake. He just hadn't realized it until that moment, but he knew how to put it right.

The next time, he had Clark meet him in a relatively quiet restaurant in downtown Gotham, just the two of them, over a late lunch. He answered all of Clark's questions about the thrilling life of Bruce Wayne and he did so straightforwardly, without hesitation or evasion, while Clark looked at him as if wondering exactly which of his screws was loose. They barely even made it through their entrée before they were done with the list of questions Clark had brought with him, then Bruce pushed back his chair and stood. 

"You're leaving?" Clark said, looking up at him from his chair as he set his napkin down on the table. "You have someplace important to be?"

"I have plans," Bruce replied, offhand. 

Clark leaned forward on his elbows with the faintest hint of a smile on his face. "Way to make a guy feel special, Mr. Wayne," he said. "I thought I had at least an hour. Maybe two, though I wouldn't want to push my luck. I know you have a busy social calendar."

"I didn't realize this was a social call."

Clark frowned. "And I didn't realize we were through playing games," he said.

"You don't think it's time?"

Clark sighed and sat back, his hands at the edge of the table. "Sit down, Bruce," he said, gesturing to the chair he'd only just vacated, and Bruce, against all his better judgment, did exactly that. 

"What do you want, Clark?" he asked.

"Is this about what happened at the gym?" 

"It's not about anything." 

"It's about something. Aren't we friends?"

"More like coworkers." 

"We haven't worked together in a while."

"So we're acquaintances, then."

"Sure. And if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd like to get better acquainted."

Clark raised his brows pointedly. Bruce gripped the edge of the table. 

"Then it's a good thing you know better."

"Is this about what happened at the gym?" Clark asked again.

"What do you think happened at the gym, Clark?"

"Well, you took me to a gay bar, Bruce," Clark said. 

"You say that almost like it means something." 

They looked at each other over the table and the remains of their entrées for a few long seconds. Then Clark stood. He leaned down over the table, almost like Bruce wasn't the taller of the two. 

"You're trying to make me angry," he said. "I don't know why, but it won't work."

"I think it already has," Bruce replied, and he stood, too. 

He could've hit him. He might've broken every bone in his hand but he could've hit him, or he could've kissed him, or something, anything, but he tossed a hundred dollar bill onto the table and he walked out instead and he left Clark behind him, because for once he didn't know what else to do. And now here he is, standing in the cave with his suit discarded, wishing he'd never agreed to the goddamn interview in the first place. Clark arrived a few minutes ago. His security system's no match for Superman, and he tells himself that's true because he's let it be, whether that's actually the truth or not.

"I don't want to hurt you," Clark says, and Bruce laughs because he knows that's not true. Except then Clark - _Superman_ , now he's in the suit and Bruce is not - rests his hands on Bruce's shoulders, brushes his neck with his thumbs, and he can't laugh anymore. Not with the way Clark's touching him.

"What if I want you to?" he asks. "What if I _ask_ you to?"

Clark's hand moves. He clamps it over Bruce's throat and Bruce knows, _knows_ , it's not even a fraction of what Clark's really capable of. That knowledge thrills him. If Clark wants to hurt him, he can't make him stop.

"I don't want to hurt you, Bruce," Clark says, but he _is_ hurting him. Bruce can barely breathe, but the fact is he believes him. He was wrong. Clark lets go.

"Pretend you do," Bruce says, hotly, tightly, and the sound Clark makes is almost a growl as he steps in close and twists his fingers hard into Bruce's hair. He pulls Bruce's head back. He presses his mouth to Bruce's throat, slips one hand straight down the front of Bruce's sweats, and God, oh God, when Clark kisses him, when his mouth finds his as his fingers squeeze his cock, it's not what Bruce wanted, but somehow it's not _not_ , either. 

It takes Clark fifteen seconds to undress him and that's because he takes his time. It takes Clark fifteen seconds to undress himself, too, and that's because he clearly,, obviously wants Bruce to watch. So Bruce watches, his cheeks hot, his cock half hard, his nails jammed into his palms because it's been less than a minute and a minute ago he didn't even want this, not outside the abstract, but somehow he's still impatient for it. Out of the suit, Clark just looks like a guy, maybe not a regular guy but halfway there, a guy who works out, a good looking guy, and all Bruce wants to do is bracket Clark's slim waist with his hands as he kisses him. He wants it so he does it and Clark enthusiastically reciprocates, except they're still in the cave and that won't do, at least not for Clark. For some reason, that matters.

He takes Clark to the bedroom. They walk through the house naked, and Bruce hopes to hell that Alfred's still out because sure, it wouldn't scandalize him, he's seen worse, but he'd never hear the end of it. He leads Clark to the bedroom and he closes the door though the blinds are all open and the room's lit only by the full moon reflected off the water. That's fine, though - he can see well enough, the contours of Clark's body picked out in moonlit light and shadow, the places where his hands fit, the crook of his neck where his mouth goes, and then Clark pushes him down. Bruce should feel panic. He feels desire instead, or maybe in addition to.

Clark doesn't need to see through walls to find the lube in the drawer by the bed. He doesn't need to be superpowered to know what Bruce wants. He slicks his fingers and he slips them down between Bruce's parted thighs. He trails them back, circles his hole, and Bruce can't remember the last time he _wanted_ like this, or let himself give in to it. Clark's fingers don't penetrate him and he doesn't want them to; he watches Clark slick his cock, slowly though he doesn't have to be slow, thoroughly, base to tip, and he wants that instead. He wants the hot, deep burn of it, the friction and the thrill of it, and Clark seems only too happy to oblige. Bruce turns onto his knees and his forearms. Clark rubs himself against his hole then pushes in, not stopping till he's sheathed in him, his hands tight at his hips.

Bruce knows Clark could likely last all night, but that's not the way it goes. Clark fucks him as Bruce claws the sheets, almost harder than he wants him to but then again not hard enough. Bruce wants to hurt, but it's not for punishment or penance and it's not some twisted sense of hidden masochism. It turns out Bruce wants to hurt because Clark doesn't want to hurt him. Maybe he thinks there's power in that, or maybe it's just that the strongest man on Earth is fucking him right now. He wants to make him lose control. Just a little. Just enough. 

But Clark pulls him up onto his knees, his chest pressed up to Bruce's back. He strokes him with one lube-slicked hand and Bruce doesn't argue, though it slows the pace back down. Clark squeezes his balls. Clark strokes his cock. And all Bruce can do is clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and grip hard at the headboard as he comes and comes and fucking comes. Clark's right there with him, one hand slipping up to Bruce's chest, one palm flat there over his sternum as he groans and bucks and comes inside him. In the morning, Bruce won't be surprised if there's five round bruises on his skin like the tips of Clark's fingers and thumb. They'll almost be lost with all the rest of his bruises, but he'll know they're there, at least. Maybe that's enough to remind him Clark wants him to live.

When Clark pulls out, Bruce turns and stretches out there on his back. Clark goes down beside him. They turn their heads. They look at each other, sidelong, in the almost dark.

"How about next time I call you and not your office?" Clark says. 

"You have more questions for your interview?"

"You know, I finished that after the first time we met," Clark says. "I guess I cheated." Bruce raises his brows, and Clark's mouth twists wryly. "I called Alfred. He says you can address your complaints to him and stop acting like a juvenile ass." 

"So you've been..."

"Playing with you? Maybe. Yeah." He takes a breath. He runs one hand over his hair as he looks at him. "I don't need an interview to tell me who you are, Bruce. You're a good man."

Bruce knows he should be angry, but the fact is that he's not. He laughs and it's like a glorious fucking relief, like a breathless release, and he couldn't be angry about it if he tried. Clark could rule the world if he wanted to; instead, he's used his wiles to get Bruce into bed, and he probably regrets every bruise he's put on him. He figures that says something about the man he is. Maybe Clark's hope and faith in him can make him better, too; the surprise is, he'd like to find out.

"Next time, maybe I should stop by Metropolis," Bruce says, experimentally. 

A slow, warm smile spreads across Clark's face as he realizes what that means. He turns up onto his side. Clark kisses him, Bruce absolutely lets him do it.

"Wear the batsuit," Clark says. "I have an idea."

And Bruce, in spite of everything, looks forward to seeing exactly what's in store.


End file.
